


1-800-r-u-mine?

by jellydonut16



Series: just you and I (here in our own planet) [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blowjobs, Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Escort!Yuuri, Light Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Riding, Smut, Top Victor Nikiforov, author!viktor, i like my porn with a sprinkling of Emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15496725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellydonut16/pseuds/jellydonut16
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov is a world-renowned author who’s always exceeded expectations. He’s published bestseller after bestseller, and he’s made himself a household name in the world of books and literature. Despite this, he’s become estranged to the world. Struggling to finish his latest book, he travels to a place far out where he hopes, perhaps, he might be able to find inspiration again.There, he stumbles upon a small golden calling card that could very well turn his life around. Viktor learns how to reacquaint himself to the intimacy of physical touch again.





	1-800-r-u-mine?

The first word is always the hardest.

 

It’s like laying down the first brick of a home’s foundation. It’s the one that sets the mood, sets the tone for the rest of the story. There are many novellas, many books whose very essence could be encapsulated in those first few words— much like the first note to a familiar song.

 

A plethora of different worlds, multiple universes, each and every one of them remarkable in their own ways. A colourful cast of characters living their own realities, realising their own truths. All of them stand out in unique ways.

 

That being said, Viktor Nikiforov is no stranger to the absolutely exhilarating thrill of creating something new; to see something of his creation, of _his_ design, come to life at his very fingertips.

 

World-renowned author, they call him! Everything he’s published has become a bestseller, and during his prime, he had shown no signs of stopping. Countless book signings, a world tour so he could promote his books! There were movie adaptations of his books— plays, even!

 

He supposed it was of no surprise when he’d slowly felt the pressure to keep on writing stories that would shock and awe his readers creeping up on him. He felt the constant need to create, and every second he didn’t spend writing, he felt as if it were a waste of time. But despite this, he had eventually become aware of the looming lapses of silence that hung overhead.

 

They call him Aria. When he writes, the words come to life and they _sing_. They make people feel, and deeply.

 

It was something Viktor was very much proud of in his own writing, to be able to move people. He had published book after book for upwards of several years in a row now. He was doing so well, and yet— he wasn’t exactly sure when it’d started, but somewhere along the line, he just couldn’t keep up anymore. He was running out of steam.

 

It was overwhelming. It was too much and absolutely _nothing_ all at once. His momentum had slowed down— exponentially!— before it eventually trickled down to a halt. A full-stop.

 

When he stares at an empty page, a blank screen, what he sees are no longer a world of possibilities— no, instead, what he sees could’ve very well been a reflection of himself.

 

Words come to mind but they’re all jumbled up. They’re all muddled together, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can barely make sense of it all.

 

See, the act of writing in itself wasn’t _difficult_ for him, he daresay. It was the act of creating something new, however, that was another thing altogether.

 

Yes, he thinks, it’s much more difficult. Much more complicated, much more complex. In each book he’d published over the past, what— ten years? Fifteen years?— he had invested a piece of himself into each and every one. Was that why he felt so empty?

 

Was it because there was nothing in him he’d left for himself?

 

Man had not been created a container; and yet, somehow, we as human beings are similar. As children, we are like sponges. We learn, we take in all that surrounds us, which help to develop who we are as individuals. And when we give, when we create, we pour out small amounts of ourselves into our work.

 

Had he exhausted all of the Viktor-ness inside him to the point where his words had finally run dry?

 

Maybe.

 

Maybe not.

 

Either way, to live like this was to live on the edge; it was to live dangerously, especially for someone like him. It was unsustainable. No fruit would ever come from it.

 

For years now, he had grown because of his passion for writing stories. When he had given, he had received tenfold.

 

What happens when you realise you can’t go any further? And when you look back, what happens when you find out you’re too far gone to return to where you came from?

 

He feels like Sisyphus, pushing himself to the brink, to his very limit; and yet, he finds himself unable to get past this. Doing the best he can, it still just isn’t enough. Every failed attempt drains him, leaving him more tired and uninspired than ever.

 

It’s a futilitarian pursuit— a merciless one, with no end in sight.

 

* * *

 

The phone is ringing again.

 

It’s the umpteenth time the phone’s been ringing today. Viktor turns to look at his alarm clock, baby blue eyes of his weary. Tired.

 

It’s still morning.

 

There’s literally no one else in Viktor’s life who would call him that often, so therefore it must be Yakov, his publisher. Another follow up, Viktor supposes, to something that honestly might never reach completion.

 

When words run dry, it hits you heavy. Leaves you grasping at the seams, even when it’s all falling apart; desperate; searching for _something_.

 

_Any_ thing.

 

Take a deep breath.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

After a prolonged moment, Viktor finally sits up from the couch. He runs a hand through his hair and stares at the phone, willing it to stop ringing. It remains unanswered for several moments, before it finally stops. Viktor finds himself surrounded in the same deafening silence.

 

Everything is muted; dull; bleak.

 

(What is that ringing in his ears?)

 

* * *

 

When Viktor wakes up, his head is pounding, like someone’s been beating two steel drums right against his ears. He lies in bed, gritting his teeth in pain. Finally, he forces himself up and onto his feet.

 

The room is a mess. There are bottles and books everywhere; empty dirty glasses atop every horizontal surface. Balls of wadded up paper strewn all over the floor, a rubbish bin overflowing with paper and take-out cartons. He steps on a few of them. He kicks them aside, irate. Red-hot anger directed at himself beginning to thrum beneath his skin.

 

Failures.

 

All of them.

 

He could try— genuinely _try_ — to salvage the rest of his words, but at this point, there’s nothing left to say.

 

Makkachin comes up to him once he’s seated on the couch, and Viktor smiles at the poodle wryly, giving him a scratch behind the ear in greeting.

 

Even then, he can see the concern in Makkachin’s eyes. Because Viktor hasn’t been acting like himself. He’s fairly certain everyone he’s in close contact with knows that. He doesn’t _feel_ like himself. It’s not even this weird out-of-body experience; he just genuinely feels disjointed from who he is right now, and the Viktor Nikiforov the world had expected him to be.

 

It’s… upsetting to think about.

 

Something about a certain loss of sense of self.

 

* * *

 

Viktor needs to get away.

 

From what?

 

His thoughts?

 

This place?

 

Just being here is _suffocating_ him. It’s the same four walls closing in on him. He can’t stay here, it’s not going to work out. At this point, his home seems more and more like a prison rather than a home.

 

And, God, he just wants out so badly.

 

He needs to get so, so far away from this place.

 

If he doesn’t— then to be honest, he’s afraid of what might happen to him.

 

He can feel it. The itch to crawl out of his skin, to just not be _him_. Viktor is as good as dead if he remains as he is.

 

* * *

 

It all happens very suddenly.

 

First, Viktor is curled up on the couch with Makkachin, browsing through different sites on his phone, and the next thing he knows, he’s calling his therapist to make sure they reschedule their upcoming appointments, saying that she doesn’t need to worry about him, he’s doing perfectly fine, and that he’s just taking a quick breather from everything.

 

And then he starts packing his things. Makes sure to include everything he needs in there, wouldn’t want to miss anything, now would he?

 

Perhaps the most miraculous thing of all, is that for the first time in months, he finally calls Yakov.

 

“I’m going away,” he says, as soon as Yakov picks up, and even as he’s speaking, the words don’t feel like they’re coming from him. Ears full of cotton; mouth full of sand. “I need to get out of here. Just for a while. I’m taking Makkachin with me.”

 

There’s silence on the line for a moment before Yakov says he’ll be there in half an hour.

 

* * *

 

Viktor and Yakov are sitting on a bench at a park near Viktor’s apartment. They watch as Makkachin wanders around the grassy field, tail wagging excitedly. They had passed by the _Pyshechnaya_ on the way here and ordered some _pyshki_ with coffee to-go.

 

“Vitya. You do know that what you’re about to do is extremely reckless, yes?” Yakov is the first to break the silence that had fallen between them. “What exactly are you planning?”

 

Viktor doesn’t reply right away. Truth be told, he’s almost afraid to say it. He gulps.

 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, voice low.

 

Yakov leans in closer, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What?”

 

“I said,” Viktor reiterates, louder, “I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?”

 

“I mean exactly what I said,” Viktor continues, sheepishness creeping into the edges of his tone. “It’s just that— I need time for myself. So I’ve been thinking of taking a break from it all, going on a trip… Like I said, I don’t know. I honestly barely have anything planned, but I’m taking Makkachin with me.”

 

He leans back into the bench; slumps a bit. “It’s just that I know I want out. I need space to breathe again. And hopefully, maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll learn how to feel like a person again. Maybe.”

 

“And you think you won’t get that here,” Yakov states, rather than asks.

 

“I know for a fact I won’t. Look, something’s gotta change. I can’t stay like this any longer. Not if you want Viktor Nikiforov to keep on creating.”

 

“See, now, writing isn’t the be-all and end-all of everything—”

 

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Viktor cuts in with a scoff, “Because it’s _everything_ to me. It’s all I have. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

 

More silence. They don’t speak for a prolonged moment, Viktor reaching for another _pishka_ and taking a sip from his cup of coffee.

 

“You’ve missed the point entirely, Vitya. What I’m trying to say is, that all of this—” Yakov gesticulates vaguely, half-eaten _pishka_ in hand, “Doesn’t define your worth or who you are. Those stories might have a part of you, but they’re not _you_.”

 

“That’s what my therapist tells me.” Viktor says, and somehow he feels irritated about it. Because yes, he certainly does understand what they’re getting at. But for once, he’d just like to _feel_ what he wants to, no matter what anyone else thinks of it. Is it really so unreasonable to be unreasonable? “It’s ridiculous. I’m an author. Of course my works define who I am. Who would I be without them? I’d just be another passing face.”

 

The skepticism on Yakov’s face is evident. “Somehow I highly doubt that.”

 

“Well I beg to differ.”

 

“Then that’s where you’re wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Yakov watches as Viktor finishes loading the suitcases into the back of his flamboyant pink Cadillac. “Are you sure about this, Vitya?”

 

Viktor smiles at him faux naïf, nonchalant. Yakov sees right through his façade and they both know it. “Of course not! But I’ve already made reservations, so obviously I can’t back down now, can I?”

 

Viktor makes sure Makkachin is properly secure for the ride before he goes and gives Yakov a parting hug and a kiss on the cheek. “ _Dasvidaniya_ , Yakov. I’ll see you again soon.”

 

After that, Viktor gets into his car and he drives.

 

* * *

 

It’s just past lunch when Viktor finally arrives at his destination the next day. He and Makkachin had fun, driving along the vast, empty countryside, staying at a small inn along the way for the night. They’d take occasional pitstops so they could take the time to explore the new sights. He hadn’t been anywhere else but his home for so long, to finally break out of that exile he’d imposed unto himself felt more freeing than anything.

 

Viktor had reserved about a week’s stay at a lodge a little far out, nestled in a relatively small town. When he’d searched online, he discovered it was a tourist destination of sorts outside of the major cities. And he’d read about how artists of all types and mediums would come and take long hikes in the lush forest, hiking trails leading up and down the woods, supposedly inspired by all the scenery.

 

And now for the lodge itself— albeit the fact it looked like it came straight from the eighties, had an interior that was very warm and inviting, with soft yellows and incandescent lights. He left his car with the valet and the bellboy had loaded his bags onto a trolley.

 

As he waits at the receptionist’s desk to check in, taking a sip of his welcome drink proffered to him on a silver tray, he glances around the lobby and studies the other patrons. There are a couple of travellers lingering by the entrance, dressed in hiking gear. He can hear them speaking in French and instantly looks away, so as not to seem like he understood their conversation.

 

Near the open window of the lodge’s café, he sees an older gentleman reading today’s newspaper while smoking a cigarette. The man’s hands tremble as he picks up his cup of coffee, the warm liquid violently sloshing about in its container. By the grand piano tucked into one side of the room, he sees a stern-looking woman talking to a younger man with hushed undertones. They both seem to be dressed in formal wear.

 

None of these people seem to have anything at all in common, aside from the fact that they were all guests here.

 

When Viktor receives his key card, he takes the elevator up to the fifth floor with Makkachin and his bags in tow. He had reserved one of the suites, deciding a single room might be too crowded for him and Makkachin, even if a single room was all they needed.

 

He really didn’t want to spend a week literally boxed in within four walls. After all, it’d pretty much defeat the point of all this, wouldn’t it? In a way, the further he got from St. Petersburg, the more he felt like he had room to breathe. He’d been stuck in that slump for so long, to finally and abruptly cast all that weight off his shoulders was one of the most freeing things he had ever done for himself.

 

No more looming deadlines.

 

No more calls from Yakov going unanswered.

 

Viktor wanders into the master bedroom and lays down on the bed, feeling spent. He never knew the one thing he loved doing the most could feel like such a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. He had anticipated it at one point, but he never would’ve thought it could get this bad.

 

He can hear the pitter-pattering of Makkachin’s feet as the poodle explores the different rooms. The room is quiet, yet still, he can hear that faint ringing in his ears.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

As he stares up at the ceiling, his thoughts begin to settle in. The usual ones. The ones that’ve been terrorising him every single waking moment for the past how many years.

 

Like how the hell is he ever going to finish this book? It was supposed to be the long-awaited sequel to one of his most popular books. It was the book that had launched him into the spotlight, the book that made him a household name, the type of book whose author you could instantly recognise in passing while skimming through books in the library.

 

He had everything planned out. _Everything_. He created an entire world for them. Everything was interwoven, and every piece of the puzzle had a place. He knows this story like the back of his hand. He knows its characters just as well as he knows himself.

 

But he just can’t seem to make the words flow the way they used to. It doesn’t have the same ease, the same fluidity his writing once had.

 

Maybe, perhaps, he’d just expected too much of himself. And maybe he just couldn’t handle the weight that held. He didn’t want to disappoint his readers. He didn’t want to come out with something half-assed, slap his name on it and call it a day. He wanted something he could be proud of. Something that could surprise even _him_.

 

He wanted to pull the rug right from beneath his readers’ feet. He wanted to throw them into a whirlwind of emotions, to actually feel like they were living in the shoes of the main characters.

 

Viktor knew he couldn’t do that as he was right now. But to just literally run away from it all— what was he thinking?

 

What if, in the end, it didn’t work?

 

Would he head back to St. Petersburg, uninspired as he had ever been?

 

He had always acknowledged his critics, both positive and negative. But in the end, he knew that his greatest critic was himself.

 

Still. That didn’t change the fact that he was here to try. He was here to try and make something happen.

 

He sits up and calls for Makkachin. The poodle immediately bounds into the room, tail wagging as he jumps up on the bed and tries pawing at Viktor’s leg.

 

Viktor smiles. “How about we go for a hike, Makkachin?”

 

* * *

 

After their hike, he and Makkachin share a hearty dinner at a small family-owned restaurant across the street from the lodge before making their way back to the suite. As Viktor closes the door behind him, Makkachin settles down on the cool floor tiles after drinking water, clearly spent from all the walking.

 

The hike had tired him out more than he thought— though, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Spending all his time indoors with zero human contact didn’t particularly bode well for him.

 

As Viktor winds down for bed, Makkachin comes in and hops on the bed, climbing right on top of Viktor’s chest— a habit Makkachin developed as a puppy, and something Viktor never thought of correcting at the time— and he groans at the weight of Makkachin’s paws as the poodle curiously sniffs at the glass of water on top of the bedside table. Viktor’s eyes widen in alarm and he quickly reaches for the glass to steady it, only to wind up knocking the hotel’s leather binder off the bedside table in his haste.

 

He lets out another noise of frustration, unwillingly rising to his feet so he can place the glass on the kitchen counter, where Makkachin won’t be able to get to it.

 

Once he pads back to the bedroom, he smiles to himself when he sees that Makkachin’s taken up his warm, cozy spot on the bed. Viktor picks up the binder by its spine and a glint of gold catches his eye. His brows furrow. It’s a— a business card?

 

It must’ve fallen down.

 

He skim over it tiredly, and once its contents sink in, his eyes widen in surprise.

 

This is for an… escort service agency.

 

 

 

 

**EROS  
** **Escort Service  
** **+7 940 XXX XX XX**

 

He runs his thumb along the matte black embossed text before he flips it over.

 

 

 

 

**_Where your  
_** **_desires come to life_ **

 

…Okay. That was… unexpected. He certainly didn’t read about any escort services on Trip Advisor. He shakes his head and shoves the calling card back into the binder. This can’t be real, right?

 

He pushes the thought out of his mind and curls up beside Makkachin, falling fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

When Viktor wakes, he vaguely remembers having dreamt that the hotel had an escort service. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it was actually real. He startles and lunges for the binder, opening it up. And to his surprise, the gold calling card is still there, innocuously staring at him. He tilts it around and watches, mesmerised, as the card catches the sunlight pouring in through the windows, reflecting back onto the tips of his fingers.

 

So it wasn’t a dream.

 

He gets up and sets the calling card down on the wooden desk by his dresser before digging his laptop and charger out of his suitcase. Viktor takes the time to sift through the notebook he’d been writing in during his hike yesterday, poring over what he’d written.

 

It was better than nothing. But it could be better.

 

It has to be.

 

* * *

 

Viktor spends majority of his day inside with Makkachin, the urge to continue working just a habit he can’t quite seem to break at the moment. He sits by his desk, occasionally moving to the kitchen area, or the living room, and all throughout the suite, he can hear the faint sound of the television, to where he’d set it to a local news station. Just something to drown out everything else.

 

He’s been trying to get into the mindset of how he used to be, when it seemed like he couldn’t type fast enough. He knows he should be resting right now, but he couldn’t help but feel restless, the back of his mind constantly reminded of what he had to do.

 

After hitting another roadblock for what felt like the umpteenth time, he finally decided to take a quick break. He sits on the couch with Makkachin, and even then, he couldn’t help but feel kind of… lonely. Viktor takes in a deep breath and sighs, glancing around the suite.

 

Now that he realises he’s here on his own, the larger the place seems. The more empty it feels. Though he supposes he isn’t a stranger to it— as of late, he’d spent most of his time on his own, barely interacting with anyone else. He’d become a recluse in every sense of the word, and to just be out here right now, felt more jarring than ever.

 

He reaches for his notebook again and sifts through its pages, its corners worn with worry. It all seems so disconnected. Like there’s something in between him, who he is right now, and the Viktor Nikiforov he had always been.

 

He hasn’t talked to other people in a while and it shows.

 

Something about his writing seems forced; unnatural— something it had never been. He supposes he could’ve reached out to any of his friends, but to be honest, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the same ol’ spiel over and over again. He’s fed up with the ‘I-told-you-so’s, and on God, he’s done with dealing with people who think they have a say in how he should live his life.

 

Yakov and his therapist aside, of course.

 

For once, he didn’t want people to make assumptions about his life. He just wanted to vent, maybe, or just be around another person without them instantly jumping to conclusions about who he was as a person, as a writer, as a friend.

 

After his break, he resigns himself back to his desk, opening up his laptop again. A glint of gold catches his eye and he tentatively picks up the escort service business card up. An escort. Viktor had never thought of hiring an escort before, but… who knows?

 

It might be worth a try.

 

* * *

 

Night falls. Viktor feels a bit nervous; he doesn’t quite know what to expect, but he hopes it won’t be awkward for the both of them. Makkachin’s picking up on his owner’s restless energy and it’s affecting him as well. It’s probably a comical sight to see them both pacing back and forth in front of the door.

 

He needed to calm down, first and foremost; being stressed out wouldn’t help him any, after all. It’s just that it’s been so long since he’s actually taken the time to talk to anyone else aside from Yakov or his therapist. He’d made an effort to look good at least, wearing a crisp white button-down tucked into black pants.

 

And finally, the doorbell rings.

 

He takes a deep breath and clears his throat before opening the door, a small smile already on his lips— that is, until he takes in the sight of the man standing in front of him. Viktor’s jaw _drops_ , because the man in front of him is absolutely fucking _gorgeous_. The man had pale skin, delicate features, dark hair slicked back, and immensely intelligent eyes that just drew him _in_.

 

“Hi,” Viktor says, moving so he could let the other man inside. “I’m Viktor. It’s— It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Makkachin instantly jumps into action, sniffing at the other man’s black trench coat. The man laughs, and it sounds absolutely lilting; melodic, even.

 

“Is this your dog?” He asks, offering his hand for Makkachin to sniff. He looks up at Viktor, a smile on his face. “He’s adorable.”

 

“Yeah, his name is Makkachin.” Viktor closes the door behind him, still unsure of what to do. “And you are..?”

 

“Yuuri,” the other man— _Yuuri_ — answers, drawing his hand away from Makkachin and standing up straight so he can speak to Viktor properly. Yuuri gives him a cursory glance-over before turning away, placing his clutch on top of the TV display cabinet. “So. What would you like to do, Viktor?”

 

The mirth that’d been in Yuuri’s beautiful brown eyes had quickly faded and turned into something more _intense_ ; more seductive. Yuuri peers at him through eyes half-mast, an air of amusement still about him.

 

“Maybe we can talk..?” Viktor suggests, expression sheepish.

 

Yuuri quirks an eyebrow up at him. “You want to _talk_?”

 

Viktor gesticulates vaguely, shrugging his shoulders.

 

“Talk about what?” Yuuri asks further, seemingly at a loss for words, and honestly, Viktor doesn’t really know what to say either. He never expected to get this far, so he’d never really thought about it.

 

“I guess we can talk about anything,” Viktor says, “About life, maybe?”

 

Yuuri lets out another laugh, incredulous this time, and he paces around the living room like it was his own. Viktor watches, entranced, before moving in so he could pop open the bottle of rosé he’d left to chill in a bucket of ice water on top of the coffee table. He pours them each a flute of champagne, and Yuuri smiles at him as he takes the glass from him, tips of his fingers brushing against Viktor’s. He examines its contents, swirling the light pink liquid around, the stem precariously twisting in between his index finger and his thumb. Then Yuuri takes a small sip of the champagne, making himself quite at home on the leather loveseat, crossing one leg over the other, the slit of Yuuri’s trench coat revealing the expanse of his leg for just a brief moment.

 

Viktor gulps and he feels hot under his collar. Yuuri meets his gaze head-on, arching his neck just so. Yuuri smiles, sweet and saccharine, and in that moment, Viktor just _knows_ Yuuri is doing all this deliberately. And on top of that, Yuuri even pats the seat beside him, gesturing for Viktor to sit beside him.

 

“You wanted to talk, didn’t you? About life, you said. And what about it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Viktor says honestly, taking a seat beside Yuuri. “Life… It could be better, I guess.”

 

“Mm.” Yuuri takes another sip of his champagne. “I feel that.”

 

“I mean, technically, there’s nothing _wrong_ with my life, but like. It sucks.” Viktor lets out a brusque laugh, burying his face in his hand. “Sorry. I’m usually better than this when it comes to words. I’m a writer, I guess. I write for a living.”

 

“That’s really interesting,” Yuuri comments, subtly turning to face Viktor. “What do you usually write about?”

 

Viktor shrugs. “Stuff.” When he sees the unamused look on Yuuri’s face, he immediately backtracks, inadvertently laughing again. “I write novels, Yuuri. I dabble in different genres, but I feel at home the most with writing thrillers or fantasy novels. Something that really draws you in and leaves you on the edge of your seat. Those are the books I live to write.”

 

“But..?”

 

Viktor smiles, but it seems more like a wince than anything else. “But it _seems_ like I just can’t write anymore. I mean, as well as I _used_ to. I don’t know, it’s like I’ve run out of all the words I could say. Like I _know_ what I want to write, I have it all planned, I can see it in my mind’s eye. And yet when I try to commit my thoughts to paper, it’s like I end up falling short of what I want to achieve, and what I want my novel to be.”

 

“So what are you going to do about it?” Yuuri asks, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he’s completely facing Viktor.

 

“Well I took a break— _am_ taking a break. Right now, actually. I started to feel like I was suffocating, like I was in stagnant water with no winds to bring me to shore. Lost, I guess. I think I just needed to pave a way for myself moving forward.”

 

“How’s it working out for you so far?”

 

“Not that great, to be honest. There’s— there’s a lot I still need to work on.”

 

Yuuri nods and they sit in silence for a while, nursing their drinks. Viktor refills Yuuri’s glass of champagne and he asks him, “Well, what about you?”

 

“What about me?” Yuuri asks, an amused smile playing on his lips, painted a dusty rose nude. For some reason, Viktor’s eyes are constantly drawn to them. He can’t stop looking at Yuuri’s lips. It’s distracting.

 

“Tell me about yourself. I’ve been doing all the talking so far.”

 

Yuuri turns away and Viktor snaps out of his reverie, blinking in surprise. He watches as Yuuri mulls over his thoughts; takes notice of the way Yuuri’s brows furrow just a fraction. “There’s not much to say. I grew up in Japan, moved to Russia to take up ballet. That didn’t really work out for me, so I travelled around for a while before settling here. Kind of. I’d like to believe I won’t be here in this town forever, no matter how beautiful it is.” He pauses for a moment before speaking again. “And I _love_ the snow. I love winter. I have so many fond memories of back home.”

 

Just for a moment, Yuuri’s expression turns wistful. Viktor doesn’t know why, but just seeing it is enough to make his heart ache.

 

“Well,” Viktor starts, “If you really love the snow that much, then I do too.”

 

Yuuri turns to look at him again, an undecipherable expression on his face. He moves in closer, and Viktor does too, but they both stop before they get too close. “I’m sorry,” Viktor apologises out of reflex, drawing back, but Yuuri shakes his head.

 

“No, don’t be. It’s fine Viktor, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

 

“Sorry,” Viktor blurts out, and he inwardly curses himself for apologising over and over again. “I mean— it’s just that— it’s been a really long time since I’ve last,” a vague gesture between the two of them, “Been with someone, y’know, like _this_.”

 

Throat suddenly dry, Viktor reaches for his drink and takes a swig.

 

Yuuri breathes out. “Oh. Well do you want me to help you through it?”

 

Viktor nearly chokes on his champagne mid-sip. He coughs, setting the glass down on the coffee table. “ _What?_ ”

 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Yuuri continues, as if he wasn’t aware of the implications of what he’d just said. Which Viktor was pretty sure he was... Right? “But only if you want me to. Do you want me, Viktor?”

 

Viktor gulps, and he can’t help but stare at Yuuri’s lips. They look soft. Full and inviting. Yuuri instantly takes notice (of course he does) and he bites into his plush bottom lip, smiling at him. “I take it that’s a yes? Go ahead, Viktor. Touch me.”

 

Viktor glances up at Yuuri, unsure, and Yuuri nods in his express consent. Viktor lets out a low exhale and places his hand on Yuuri’s knee.

 

“Go on,” Yuuri coaxes, pulling at the hem of his trench coat and pulling it up his leg. “I’m all yours.”

 

“You’re sure now?” Viktor asks, still wary.

 

“I am. If I wasn’t comfortable with it, I’d tell you. I’d like to think you’d do the same. Right?”

 

“...Right.” Gulping, Viktor inches his hands further up the expanse of Yuuri’s skin until his hand is right on top of Yuuri’s upper thigh.

 

They share another look— a curious one from Yuuri— and Viktor guides his hand along Yuuri’s inner thighs. Yuuri’s breath hitches and just for a moment, he presses into Viktor’s touch. Viktor continues this, making slow, teasing circles along Yuuri’s skin. They slowly inch closer to each other, close enough just so Viktor can very easily bridge the gap between their needing lips.

 

Yuuri is the first one to make a move, pressing their foreheads together until their breaths are mingling with each other. He cups Viktor’s cheeks and presses their lips together, Viktor instantly kissing Yuuri back. They linger in their kiss for a few seconds before pulling away, staring at each other.

 

And they kiss again, Viktor becoming a little bolder, languidly undoing the sash and buttons on Yuuri’s trench coat before tugging the black coat off, as if unwrapping a gift just for him. He revels in the sight of Yuuri in a skin-tight and plum-coloured tube dress, and Yuuri straddles him, hiking the dress all the way up to his hips. Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s slim waist and reinitiates their kiss, and he loses himself in the motions.

 

Yuuri pulls away from Viktors lips and trails open-mouthed kisses down Viktor’s neck, and a ragged moan leaves Viktor’s lips as he arches his neck so Yuuri has better access to his skin. Yuuri runs a hand down along Viktor’s chest, grinding into him as he does so, and Viktor places his hand on Yuuri’s ass and lifts his hips up to meet Yuuri’s ministrations. Viktor’s eyes flutter close in bliss as Yuuri leaves lovebites and messy lipstick marks lower along the base of Viktor’s neck, fingers fumbling and undoing the buttons of Viktor’s button-down along the way.

 

They continue grinding against each other, Viktor’s hands holding onto Yuuri’s ass for more friction, as they share slow, impassioned kisses. Yuuri pulls away for a moment to undo Viktor’s pants, finally freeing Viktor’s cock from the tight restraints of his clothing. There’s a dark, wet spot staining the front of Yuuri’s tube dress, and Viktor takes the initiative to push Yuuri’s dress up even further, revealing Yuuri’s half-hard cock pressing against the confines of his flimsy lace lingerie, already leaking pre-cum.

 

“How about we take this to the bedroom?” Yuuri leans in and murmurs into Viktor’s ear, his voice low. “I feel kind of awkward doing this with your dog just watching us.”

 

Viktor bursts out laughing and lets himself be pulled to his feet, Yuuri leading them to the master bedroom of the suite with practised ease. He sits on the bed after undressing himself, taking a deep breath as Yuuri closes the door behind him, clutch in hand. He’s a bit nervous, to be honest; when he says it’s been a while since he’s last slept with someone, it definitely has been a _while_.

 

Yuuri pulls out a bottle of lube and several condoms and haphazardly tosses them onto the bed. “If we’re doing this, then you’re wearing a condom. I don’t make compromises.”

 

“Of course,” Viktor says easily, expression hot as his gaze follows Yuuri’s graceful movements across the room. Yuuri sets his clutch down on the desk, right beside Viktor’s laptop, and turns to face him once more. As Yuuri reaches around himself to undo the zipper of his dress, Viktor clears his throat, recapturing Yuuri’s attention. “Need help with that?”

 

Yuuri studies him for a moment before sitting at the foot of the bed, back turned to Viktor. “Sure.”

 

Viktor reaches forward and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s nape, a soft noise leaving Yuuri’s lips, as he pulls the zipper down in increments, grip unsteady with a mix of anticipation and excitement. He runs the tips of his fingers along the line of Yuuri’s body, along Yuuri’s shoulders and down his arms, down the line of Yuuri’s spine— and takes delight in the way Yuuri’s skin shudders and shivers beneath his touch; that sharp intake of breath. He pulls Yuuri’s dress off him with the utmost care, and Yuuri automatically rises to his feet so Viktor could tug the dress off properly, catching at the tops of Yuuri’s pert ass before falling to his feet.

 

“Beautiful,” Viktor gasps out, a part of him unaware of what he’d just said. Yuuri turns to smile at him before pushing Viktor back onto the bed, sinking to his knees before him.

 

Casting one more inquisitive glance at Viktor, Yuuri reaches for Viktor’s semi-hard cock and pumps it once, twice, hazy brown eyes staring at the viscous pre-cum beading at the tip of Viktor’s cock. His fingers can’t quite meet, once wrapped around Viktor’s cock, and the moment Yuuri realises this, he elicits a loud moan, pumping faster. “Ngh, you’re so _big_. I can’t wait to feel you in me.”

 

Viktor gulps, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. Without wasting another moment, Yuuri leans in and takes the tip of Viktor’s cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling around Viktor’s cockhead. He lets out a deep moan, the rumbling vibrations prompting Viktor to slightly thrust his hips up to fuck into Yuuri’s mouth. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he garbles out, reaching out to run a hand through Yuuri’s hair, pushing the strands back. Yuuri practically _smiles_ around Viktor’s cock, head still bobbing up and down and slowly taking more of him in.

 

When Viktor feels the barest hint of teeth along the tip of his cock, his mouth falls open, hips bucking upwards, before a guttural groan leaves his lips. “ _Fuck_ , Yuuri…”

 

Unable to help himself, he runs his hand through Yuuri’s hair, grip not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to hold him steady. Yuuri pulls back for a moment and cups Viktor’s balls, lapping at the base of Viktor’s cock with small licks. He slowly makes his way up Viktor’s girth before taking Viktor into his mouth once more. He doesn’t stop until the head of Viktor’s cock hits the back of Yuuri’s throat. Viktor lets out another moan, grip on Yuuri’s hair tightening as he shifts his hips upwards.

 

He’s on the verge of tipping over the edge, so he strokes Yuuri’s cheek to get his attention and he shakes his head. “If you make me cum like this, I won’t be able to fuck you.”

 

Yuuri nods, letting Viktor’s cock slide out of his mouth with a wet _pop!_ He gets up and divests himself of his underwear, tossing aside, before leaning in to reinitiate their kiss. They fall backwards onto the bed, Yuuri right on top of Viktor.

 

Viktor blindly reaches for one of the condoms and hands it over to Yuuri, who makes quick work of it. He scoots backwards a bit and takes Viktor’s cock into his hand, slick from having been inside of his mouth. Yuuri rolls the condom onto Viktor’s rather impressive girth, pumping Viktor’s cock after he does so.

 

“Here,” Viktor says, handing Yuuri the bottle of lube. “Do you need help?”

 

“Mn, why don’t you watch me?” Yuuri turns around, still straddling him, so Viktor had a clear view of Yuuri’s pert ass. He arches his back and moves his ass closer to Viktor’s face, parting his cheeks so Viktor could see Yuuri’s entrance.

 

Yuuri momentarily slicks his fingers up with lube before rubbing it around his entrance in circles, damn well intent on giving Viktor a show. He gives his ass a quick slap, and Viktor reaches forward to grip a handful of Yuuri’s ass, squeezing it tightly. Yuuri moans, languidly swaying his hips from side to side as he plays with the area around his entrance, touch featherlight and leaving small sparks of pleasure just enough to keep him from being truly satisfied.

 

He eventually slides one finger into his hole, and Viktor watches as the ring of muscle _gives_ and makes way for the intrusion. One finger turns into two, then three. He can see clearly, the way Yuuri’s hole is clenching and unclenching around his fingers, and his cock throbs in _want_ at the very thought of being inside of Yuuri like this.

 

Viktor reaches forward and collects some of the lube dripping down Yuuri’s perineum with his thumb and swipes it back in, pushing his thumb into Yuuri’s hole. “You’re so pretty like this,” he says, gently caressing Yuuri’s inner thigh with his free hand, before taking Yuuri’s cock into his hand. Another moan leaves Yuuri’s lips, reaching down with his other hand so he could place his hands over Viktor’s.

 

Viktor pulls away when Yuuri turns to face him, his cheeks flushed a rosy red. His eyes are half-mast with arousal when he looks at Viktor and his lips, kiss-swollen from earlier, are parted around his breaths. He’s right above Viktor’s cock, gripping onto the base as he steadies himself. Viktor gulps.

 

“Don’t you _ever_ keep your eyes off me, understand?” Yuuri orders, shifting himself up so the cock of Viktor’s head is nudging Yuuri’s entrance.

 

When Viktor doesn’t respond right away, Yuuri prompts him again, grip on Viktor’s cock becoming just a bit more tighter. “ _You got that?_ ”

 

Viktor groans, thrusting upwards. “Of course, of course. Ngh, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.”

 

Yuuri smiles, satisfied with Viktor’s answer. “Good. Because I want to make you remember just how _good_ it feels to have sex. After all, I’m here to help you with that, right?”

 

And with that, Yuuri sinks down onto Viktor’s length in one fluid motion, inch by inch, until he fully bottoms out. He pauses for a bit, trying to catch his breath, getting himself to relax instead of tensing up around the intrusion. He rocks his hips forward and slides up again, making a figure of eight with his hips before sinking down again, grinding into it.

 

Viktor grips Yuuri’s hips, thrusting upwards, and Yuuri places a hand on Viktor’s chest to steady himself.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Viktor grits out, eyes closing in bliss as Yuuri rides him back and forth, back and forth, the headboard of the bed rhythmically banging against the wall with every thrust. “You’re so fucking _tight_ , Yuuri. You feel amazing, baby.”

 

Yuuri’s expression lights up with mirth, a smirk playing across his lips. “Why don’t you fuck me like you mean it then?”

 

“Don’t tempt me,” Viktor warns, grip on Yuuri’s hip tightening.

 

Yuuri lets out a lilting laugh, rocking eventually slowing down to a halt. “And if I do?”

 

Viktor lets out a growl, flipping them over so he’s on top of Yuuri, still fully sheathed inside of him. Yuuri’s legs are spread on either side of him and Yuuri’s hole is dripping with lube, his rim a swollen pink and practically beckoning for Viktor to slide right back in.

 

So he does.

 

Yuuri lets out a moan, gripping the sheets, and Viktor soon picks up a relentless pace, nothing but the sounds of their grunts and moans, and wet skin slapping against skin filling the room. Yuuri is there to meet each and every thrust, taking in Viktor’s cock like a champion.

 

He even _goads_ Viktor at one point, the amusement on Yuuri’s face never going away. “Come on, Viktor, is this the best you can do? I want you to _fuck me_ , give it to me rough. As hard as you can, I can take it.”

 

Viktor pauses for a moment to raise Yuuri’s legs up, pressing Yuuri’s knees against his shoulders so he’s on full display. Viktor rubs his cockhead against Yuuri’s entrance before thrusting inside, making sure Yuuri’s taken in his cock to the very hilt. The speed of his thrusts become merciless, the bedframe rattling with their actions, and he revels in the sound of Yuuri’s moans, rising higher and higher in pitch.

 

“Come on, Viktor, come for me. Come inside me,” Yuuri gasps out, reaching for his long-neglected cock and stroking it to the time of Viktor’s thrusts.

 

Viktor finally reaches his limit and cums inside of him, burying his face into the crook of Yuuri’s neck and sinking his teeth into Yuuri’s soft skin. He feels a splash of warmth between them, signalling Yuuri’s come as well. Another ragged moan leaves Yuuri’s lips as he continues rocking up against him, and Viktor does the same, riding their orgasms out.

 

Viktor pulls out, the condom catching at Yuuri’s abused, puffy hole. Yuuri groans at the loss, and Viktor gingerly pulls the condom off, tying a knot at the end and tossing it onto the floor. He collapses beside Yuuri, and without even realising it, he’s pulling Yuuri into his arms. They both try to catch their breaths.

 

Several minutes of a comfortable, post-coital silence lapse, before Viktor is the first one to speak, clearing his throat. He can’t stop smiling. “So… that was nice.”

 

Yuuri lets out an exasperated laugh. “‘Nice’?” He echoes, “Thanks, I guess.”

 

Viktor stares up at the ceiling; tries to make shapes out of the plain white stucco. He feels sated, yes, but there are different thoughts dancing through his head again.

 

And one pressing question tempting his curiosity above all.

 

“Yuuri,” he says, just to test the waters; see if Yuuri hasn’t dozed off yet.

 

It takes Yuuri a few seconds to respond, but he does, voice laced with the first few tinges of sleep. “Mm. Yeah?”

 

“I’m just really curious, so I hope you’ll indulge me. But if you don’t want to say, then that’s okay.”

 

Yuuri shifts in his arms, more awake now. “What is it, Viktor?” And in his voice, Viktor hears a hint of wariness. He isn’t sure what to make of it.

 

“I…” he gulps. “How did you end up becoming an escort, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“Oh.” Yuuri laughs.

 

Viktor frowns in confusion. “Wh—”

 

“It’s fine,” Yuuri interjects. “I get asked about this more often than you think. It’s not unusual to be curious about something. I get questions like these from my clients all the time.”

 

He takes a deep breath. “I mean, of course I never really _planned_ on being an escort while growing up. It just… _happened_. Like I said earlier, I wanted to be a professional dancer— a danseur. But things happened, and in the end, it just didn’t work out. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Who knows, right? But after that, I just felt so _lost_. Here I was, new to Russia, and I had nowhere to go. So I travelled from place to place, performing at clubs sometimes, before I wound up here.”

 

Viktor reaches up and starts running his hands through Yuuri’s hair; Yuuri stiffens at first before he eventually relaxes into the touch. “A friend of mine,” he continues, “She worked as an escort here. Said she made good money, and that I should try it. So here I am. I’ve never really told others about this, but…”

 

Yuuri trails off, and Viktor looks at him curiously. Yuuri is staring at the wall, resting his head on Viktor’s chest. Viktor thinks Yuuri’s just as caught up in his thoughts as _he_ is. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, Yuuri speaks up.

 

“There’s something I _love_ about the way men look at me. They look at me like I’m something precious, something to be desired. Like I’m a dream come true. I can do whatever I want, be whoever I want. And the best part is, when we’re done, we go our separate ways, and it’s like none of this ever happened.”

 

The silence that follows after is deafening, the meaning of Yuuri’s words still sinking in.

 

“Oh,” is all Viktor can say afterwards, wholly at a loss for words.

 

Yuuri laughs again, but this time, it feels a bit more hollow. Or is it just Viktor _thinking_ it sounds hollow? Here he is again, trying to find a reason for everything; scouring for deeper meanings where they obviously weren’t.

 

Sometimes, some things can’t be rationalised. They just happen. Some things just _are_ , and there’s nothing more to it than that.

 

He holds Yuuri close and lets himself fall asleep, the thoughts previously buzzing in his head muting into a dull roar.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Viktor awakes to Makkachin licking his face. Viktor turns away, burying his face into the pillow, before he remembers what had happened last night.

 

Suddenly alert, Viktor sits up straight, glancing around the room.

 

Yuuri is gone. There’s no trace of him to be found, none of his clothes strewn all over the floor, and it seems like Yuuri had even taken it upon himself to clean up after their tryst. The space beside him, cold and empty, signals the fact Yuuri had left hours ago.

 

Viktor’s head spins and he falls back onto the bed.

 

Somehow, it leaves him feeling more lonelier than ever.

 

Inhale.

 

Exhale.

 

He turns to the side and watches as something gold on his desk catches the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I highly encourage you all check out the lovely fics and art for this telephone game. I'd love to hear your thoughts! I had such a blast working with such talented content creators! ❤️
> 
> These were the lines I got from [Ren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hitsugi_Zirkus/pseuds/RennieOnIceCream):  
>  _Yuuri planted his lips beneath Viktor's chin, the last of his anxieties melting away like the taste of Viktor on his tongue. Plum lipstick marks in the shape of his lips was left behind. Before he knew it, he was peppering an abstract litter of marks all over Viktor's lips and collar. With each taste of Viktor's skin, the desire in him burned more._
> 
> _"I got something for you," he whispered. Yuuri reached over and grabbed the box still sitting on the bed and handed it to Viktor._
> 
> _"Oh~ You're just the present that keeps on giving tonight, lyubov moya," Viktor teased, plucking the box up. "What's this for?"_
> 
> [fics](https://twitter.com/crisiscores/status/1025107737892581377) | [art](https://twitter.com/crisiscores/status/1025107544338046976) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/katsukidon_)


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